Requiem
by KyMahalei
Summary: Legolas begins the journey of letting go. Teitho First Place Winner MEFA 2009


_I watch, unfettered by the claim of sleep, My grieving spirit finding no repose My heart is stretched too thin to even weep Wide eyed I own the shadows of my soul In darkest hours, under canopy of stars The forces of the universe move on The moon, long since removed to other skies And fading stars relinquishing their hold Then trembling fingers of a rosy dawn Tug away the mantle of the night To grasp with golden light the shrouded trees And call reluctant birds to morningsong A glimmer on the far horizon shines Its light inviting home my troubled soul_

_Legolas Thranduilion 120 Fourth Age_

_**Prelude**_

It came to Legolas unexpectedly. He was pouring evening wine into a glass when he noticed the pitcher that he was using. Creamy white china, fluted on eight sides and pulled in slightly at the top, like the trunk of a mallorn tree. Tiny green vines marked with graceful flowers delicately painted laced both the outer and inner rim of the vessel. A gold leaf arched over the handle where it connected to the body of the pitcher. Not Edain, but Elvin made. As Legolas poured, he remembered where he had seen the vessel. It had been Aragorn's milk pitcher when he was young at Imladris. It seemed so long ago; before so many befores. Before Aragorn's days as a ranger, before the Fellowship, before the War of the Ring. Before the long years when Aragorn was king. Years that could be laid out in neat rows, looking like they would go on forever.

Forever had ended five days ago.

Aragorn's death was not unexpected. In fact, he had chosen the day and the manner of his passing. Legolas would not have deprived his friend the dignity of dying thus, but a part of him wished that Aragorn could have delayed just a little bit longer. The days were bearable, but in the night Legolas woke frequently with a unreasonable desire to have one more glimpse of those gray eyes, to hear one more deep chuckle drawn from whatever absurdity Aragorn chanced upon (and he had chanced upon absurdities frequently). Legolas had woken once feeling that he had just missed hearing a few words spoken in Sindarin, Elvin tongue, with that sweet resonance that only Aragorn could bring to the language.

With measured movements, Legolas finished filling his glass. His hand shook only a little as he returned the pitcher to the table. He was fine. He had said his real goodbyes several days before Aragorn had died. Later on he had been so careful not to be selfish; to encourage Aragorn to walk confidently into the embrace of death. On the long watch of Aragorn's last day, he had been a silent presence in the room offering what comfort he could by holding Aragorn's hand, resting a gentle touch upon his brow, or arranging his pillows for comfort. He had not flinched at that last moment when Aragorn drew a final breath. That weighted moment, when the eternal graced the mortal world to carry away Aragorn's life spirit and precious soul. _Ai_, but that moment had seemed timeless! The rendering of soul from body had been awesome in its power and powerful in its absolute finality. There was no room for doubt that his heart brother was lost to him for eternity. Even then, Legolas had not faltered. He was strong. He was Eldar. He was fine.

Legolas sighed. He had been fine, too at the visitation. It had taken almost three days for the people of the kingdom to get done paying their respects. They had lined up in great long lines; many stood for hours waiting with subdued patience for their chance to bid farewell. Legolas had volunteered to take the night vigil for one of those nights. He was a warrior, he figured, and could stand the pain of grieving better than most. He did not flinch when a servant women fainted in her grief. It did not unravel him to see tears etching paths down the faces of Aragorn's men at arms. At one point he had heard a mother speaking to her son, who had been staring at Legolas with wide eyed curiosity, "He's an elf, son" she had said, in what she thought was a quiet whisper, "They don't grieve as we do." But Legolas had not allowed the comment to cut too deeply.

Legolas stared at the pitcher on the table, not daring to touch it. He remembered it well, now. For years it had graced the table at Imladris, and now it stood, real and solid having weight and texture and existence, while its master would never hold it again. Its master would not see it or use it or touch it. . .

A trivial thing, and yet . . . Suddenly, Legolas could feel a great chasm ripping wide deep within his heart. He stood up abruptly, turned and fled. Stopping at his room only long enough to fetch his knives, he made his way quickly to the stables.

_**Andante**_

He could not remember later how it was that he had gotten to the gates of Minas Tirith. He only knew that he needed the rhythm of his horse to bring him back into balance. Algareth trotted through the buildings that clustered just outside the city walls. Then, as the Fields of Pelennor were reached, and dusk gave way to darkness, his mount moved seamlessly into full gallop.

Several times, Legolas tried to lose himself into the rhythm of his mount. Algareth's muscles rippled, powerful and purposefully, pushing and thrumming through uncounted miles. The pain within Legolas' heart only swelled with the passing. Like the burrs that cling in late summer, his rising agony caught on every memory and every feature of his friend now dead. Legolas finally leaned forward, almost touching Algareth's mane and begged the horse to give him yet more speed. They ran thus for what seemed like hours. Algareth began to sweat; Tension filled Legolas' body unabated. His legs began to tremble from the stress. Finally, Algareth paused at the top of a tall bluff that overlooked the land. Legolas slid from his mount, and Algareth departed to cool himself down.

The stars shone brilliantly through the mantle of the night sky. The moon also had a small part, hiding behind clusters of clouds that shone silver edged in the moonlight. A gentle wind played across the land; a forerunner of the rain that would grace the plains on the morrow. Legolas finally rose to stand alone at the summit of the bluff. He looked small and vulnerable against the vast starlit reaches of the night; the wind caught strands of his golden hair, silently blowing them from his face. The elf stood firm, intentionally fixing the pride and strength of the firstborn onto his countenance, denying the tempest raging within.

Slowly, Legolas reached his arms to the sky, searching for the comfort the stars unfailingly gave. How had Aragorn come to own such a large part of his heart? He should have known better than to love one of the Edain. And yet at which moment would he have denied the friendship? There had never been another such as Estel. Never been one as impulsive, as curious, as ready for adventure, relishing the new and honoring the old. Never had there lived one who was at once so brilliant and yet so humble in his search for rightness. Which of Aragorn's endearing gestures would he have denied? Which story would he have silenced? When should he have averted his gaze, rather than watch Aragorn minister to the weak and hurting – or talk his way out of trouble? When should he have refused his help in battle? How many times had they saved each other's lives? They never had kept track. Which of Aragorn's sideways ideas, or creative solutions was it wrong to embrace? Which evening with him, laughing until his stomach hurt or talking in quiet tones about real things should have been forgone? No, somehow and some when the man had intertwined his soul with Legolas'. Death had ripped him away and was even now dismantling Legolas' heart in its wake.

Legolas lowered his arms and clenched his fists. The evening air caressed him. The light sounds of creatures settling in for the night reached his ears. Something felt wrong. Somehow he felt that the whole of creation should come unhinged at Aragorn's passing. It was not right that the rest of the world should be so unchanged. Legolas sighed deeply and gazed at the stars. They were brilliant. They shone unflinching in their seamless splendor. They were silent.

He was not comforted in the least.

_**Forte**_

Suddenly, in a move too swift for the eye to follow, Legolas' knives spun into his hands. He gripped the ivory handles tightly, almost frightening himself at the rage that erupted from the very center of his being. He was appalled at the unfairness of it all. Who had set the rules where friendship and love were rewarded by the separation of death? Why had the fates decreed that at the end of his love for Aragorn lay eternal separation? Automatically, Legolas moved into the disciplined dance of the uruvae; the warrior's preparation for battle. With each measured parry and fierce thrust, with every turn and twist he vented his anger and drove himself to reclaim control of his body. Several times, during the first set, Legolas nearly unbalanced himself with the extra momentum he thrust into each move. His thoughts raced, and anger coursed through his veins like fire. The injustice, the unfairness, the blind folly of it all. Damn the stars, Damn the Valor, Damn Aragorn himself for leaving!

The second set was no less violent. Legolas had lost much over his long life, and these losses came unbidden to his mind. So many friends, companions at arms. His own sweet mother. The ache from that long neglected wound nearly undid him. He covered the pain with rage and continued the uruvae.

The final set of the uruvae was before him. The world around him had receded and all was broken, all was fury, all was darkness. As he reached and stepped during the last part of the set his foot twisted and Legolas went down hard on his back. Helpless rage and despair hovered over him. There was no solace to be had.

If movement did not relieve the pain in Legolas soul, then stillness served him even more poorly. He finally arched his back and screamed his sorrow to the stars, a deep, loud and long keening cry of the firstborn, torn from his heart in sheer agony. Elves were not made for this. They were immortal, crafted to live inextricably in harmony as one with creation. Separation was never final. Elves were destined to live together after life in Arda. Humans, Legolas knew, were not. He had known from the start that he and Aragorn were destined to part forever at death, and yet he had not known this as he did now. His soul, ravaged with pain and anger was only a burnt out shell within him. His cry echoed into the sky, reverberated across the land. The pain returned as silence settled.__

_**Pianissimo**_

The stillness that followed was almost strong enough to be touched. And then, just as the blush of spring gives way to full green, a tendril of music could be felt. It was a wisp, barely a sound, made for Elvin hearing only. Legolas found it echoing in the aching woundedness of his soul. It was music, but there was none like it on Arda. It was a melody and harmony older than time. It was the Song through which all was made and in which all are born and live and come to an end.

Legolas could almost hear it. He stilled himself so that he could hear it better. The music leaned upon his pain, causing him to moan and cry out. It did not stop, but prodded him to move again, to take his place in the weaving of the story of time.

Finally, Legolas rose from where he was lying. In a daze, he took off his shoes and removed his tunic and undervest. He knelt then, eyes downcast, his hair falling in front of his face. Breathing deeply, he waited for the music to move within him. So often he had done thus, the music of his people was nothing if it did not enter the heart and move the soul. This time, he did not wait in vain. The music slid into his heart casting a small beacon of light into the pain that dwelt there. Legolas breathed a slow and cleansing breath and then, after a moment, rose to his feet.

He did not trust himself to dance this music, but its call to motion was undeniable. The song compelled him to move, and he scrambled to comply. Slowly, slowly, Legolas unfolded himself into the music. He stretched himself wide to hear with his body as well as his heart. The music remained. Legolas prayed that the music would hold him. He released his body to its care.

_**Allegro**_

There was none to watch the dance of the elf that night. None to marvel at the high leaps, the precise turns, the myriad ways in which the lithe movement of every muscle, every finger, every gesture was intentional and perfectly executed. His graceful steps were swifter and more complex than those from the springtime celebration. His leaps were higher and more powerful than those at midsummer dances. The rhythm thrummed and the child of the firstborn danced with the skill and beauty of eons behind him. He was Eldar and the time for his final dance on Arda had come.

Bittersweet thoughts of Aragorn wound like a taut golden thread through his dancing. No longer did the pain overwhelm and devour. It existed, but it wove its way into a greater whole. Never loosing the brightness that echoed Aragorn's spirit, Legolas thought of his _gwadar_ with love, and found that the love pulled new power from the music. As he danced, the _fea_ of Aragorn danced with him.

As dawn grew near, the dance shifted. Gradually, the music slowed. The beauty of the dance did not diminish, nor did the gracefulness of the movements subside. There was all the time to draw the dance to closure. There was all the time, then some time; then at last the dance was done.

Legolas finally eased himself to the ground and hugged his knees to his chest. He looked again at the stars as they began to fade into the dawn. They were there, as always. The circles of the world continued in their course, as always. His love for Aragorn remained, as always.

He could not flee the grief, nor fight it. He was left to only one course. With the strength of the Song still echoing in his heart, he turned and embraced the sorrow.

Legolas rested his head upon his knees and wept.


End file.
